Friday, August 18, 2006

In a strange twist of fate, we've broken down at the Border Patrol station ten miles outside of Yuma. I'm dangerously close to boycotting Arizona. We've got triple A on the way so we can get towed back to Yuma and have our alternator replaced. How do we know it's the alternator? Well, because this has happened before. That sound like a little Casius Clay crippling the interior of your engine? That's an alternator, dying miserably, without friends and family to mourn in. Now, we sit in this fetid sweatbox and wait for a tow. This afternoon sucks my ass.